


A Doppler for your thoughts

by LiberaMeDelailah



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Dudu is the BEST wingman, Edit: Added some things and changed some paragraphs, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Jaskier has been screaming to Geralt that he loves him but my Witcher covers his ears, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Roach is spiritually in this fanfic and she’s judging, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, no beta we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25160518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiberaMeDelailah/pseuds/LiberaMeDelailah
Summary: And everything was perfect, because it wasn’t.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 275
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	A Doppler for your thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> this takes elements from EVERYWHERE.  
> The books, the games, the netflix series and if you squint there's even a bit of the Polish one. 
> 
> I had this idea swimming in my head of Geralt just NOT knowing Jaskier loves him because he just doesn't pay attention and Dudu just does what a good bro does and kicks him.
> 
> Some things you might not know about Dopplers:  
> They can read the mind of the person they're taking the shape of for a minute or so.

_Dopplers, also known as vexlings or changelings, are beings able to take on the form of any humanoid or animal they please. This transformation is no mere illusion able to be shattered with a simple spell, but an authentic and complete metamorphosis. This means no protective amulets or witcher medallions will signal a doppler's presence - they emanate the same aura as the being whose form they have assumed. This, combined with their incredible intellect and cunning, would make dopplers supreme assassins or thieves - had not nature endowed them with generous and timid spirits which make them avoid the shedding of blood at all costs._

Information found on the Bestiary of Kaer Morhen.

  
  
_They would hunt the Dopplers, hunt them until there were barely remnants of their species left. It was nothing but a massacre, and nowadays, I can’t help but wonder what was the reason for such bloodshed, especially since they were creatures with such tender hearts._   
  


Brianne of Oxenfurt, _The Darkness Within._

* * *

It all started as most things do in Geralt’s life. A hunt. Of sorts. Of a Doppler. Which, by the way, was a species that was supposed to be extinct, _but_ that’s out of topic. It began with Dainty Biberveldt , a Halfling, coming to a low-life tavern to confront _Dainty Biberveldt, the very same Halfling_ — who Jaskier, his dear friend, was trying to leech from, _because of course the bard was trying to get free food and free ale_.

The entirety of events came to a very funny climax when the Doppler managed to escape the tavern, and Dainty had to run off to the Vivaldi bank to try to get things under control (since his identity was not the only thing that was stolen from him, but also his money and his dignity) — and _**then**_ , the Hafling was declared filthy rich by things he hadn’t even done himself, investments that were the work of a _genius_... Which meant that he _had_ to find the other Dainty, whose real name was Tellico, the Doppler, because, of _course,_ everyone wanted to be _magically_ filthy rich, and having someone who could easily make that happen as a friend, _or even as family_ , was always a plus _._

And so, the situation continued to escalate further, even though it was already pretty much at the very top.

By the end of it all, everything concluded with Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, a Witcher, a man — standing in front of someone he had known for _at least_ two decades. Or, well, someone he is supposed to know. In front of him stood his closest friend, the man that knew him better than he knows himself, a man whose artistic name was Jaskier, also known as Julian Alfred Pankratz, viscount of Lettenhove. Or well, someone who looks just like him, acts just like him, smiles just as he does, _devastatingly charming_. His name though, was Tellico, _or “Dudu, for my friends”_ , and he was a Doppler. One that looked deep within the Witcher — just one minute copying Geralt’s own face, really — and decided, the one person that he wouldn’t hurt, no matter what, was Jaskier. “You feel _repulsed_ at the idea of hurting this face.”

Yes, he did. He wouldn’t dare to touch him. He couldn’t. To see blood covering the bard's face, his clothes, it was the closest thing Geralt had to his worst nightmare. “Let me go.” The Doppler said, and he talks about freedoms and rights – and about becoming a wolf and adapting and hunting and just surviving and striving among humans… All with the bard’s voice and Gods, Geralt just couldn’t— he couldn’t hit him and damage that face, that voice. And so he let him go, just as he requested, following Dudu close by, because the _moment_ he changed he would be able to hurt him, to hunt him, but with that face he just couldn’t.

So he walked behind his friend — the man with his friend’s face, and saw him with that _pace_ , that little step that was more dancing than walking, with his lute in hand and _singing_ with that voice that it just— it was Jaskier, but it _wasn’t_ and he just couldn’t hurt him _because_ … because it was so much of Jaskier and yet not enough. His smile so pure as he looked at the world with no mischief, because Tellico, _or Dudu for his friends_ , couldn’t copy the evil, the human, the _complete truth._ He couldn’t copy Jaskier’s mischief, the glint in his eye when he eyed a beautiful woman or man, the way his hips would swing with purpose to flirt, and yet he still was his friend.

His voice, the ring on his falsetto, the way his fingers ran through the strings with something akin to magic. And when Vespula (one of Jaskier’s many, _many_ lovers; a woman who thought the bard left much to be desired as a partner in bed and in life, and in every other regard — _a lover Jaskier cheated on, multiple times_ ) came running with the purpose of slapping the living daylights out of Jaskier, she couldn’t see what Geralt saw, she couldn’t listen the strain in the bard's voice because he couldn’t perfectly copy Jaskier's feelings for her; the _lust_ and _tiredness_ were absent and the only thing present was the tenderness, which was hollow. Because _love_ was a choice made day by day and Dudu only knew the surface and the _good,_ and not the ugly and the empty and the dreadful.

So when Vespula hit Dudu with a pan over the face, and he fell (Geralt had to hide him from prying eyes — and from Jaskier’s howling lover who ran away screaming blasphemies, before Dudu morphed into his horrid, deformed natural form), well— Geralt was not surprised. Because Jaskier fell in love with a woman with a strong character that _would_ beat him if she had the chance, _not_ that the Witcher would allow her. 

Because Geralt _knew_ Jaskier, he _knew_ he was a dick, an ass, who leeched off everyone he could, but also, the man who had a big, strong heart, who hid the elves’ existence when no one else would have, even when they almost killed him. He didn’t just know the Jaskier with the pretty voice and the niceties, he didn’t just know the hypocrisy. He knew the man who would come and go, who did as he pleased, who shook the world on its axis whenever he decided it was time to sing and tell everyone a _story…_

_And perhaps, in all that he knew…_

Those dark enigmas Geralt hid so well, even from himself, that Dudu brought to light. Those riddles… He never allowed himself to voice. Those secrets that sent shivers down his spine. Those… _feelings…_ muted, unnatural, not real, feelings were but a mere reflection of the world before him. Feelings he wasn’t allowed to have. Hidden underneath, hushed and quiet and yet, ever-present.

Because with Yennefer it was always in the surface and it was always hurting and burning and _scarring_ , but with Jaskier, it _hurt_ , sometimes, but it never _burnt._ And so when Jaskier came to find the Witcher and Dudu, along with Dainty— well. Geralt blamed the heat of the city for the sudden speed of his heartbeat, and not the glint of Jaskier’s eye that spoke of mischief, and not the wolfish grin that was drawn upon his face when he looked upon a particularly gorgeous prostitute that was walking along the busy streets of Novigrad.

_There was an offer, somewhere, there. Dainty speaking about Biberveldt brothers, and what not..._ but if Geralt was an honest man, he was too distracted to pay much attention to anything other than to a particular bard, with long, refined fingers. 

And all the feelings he felt next — all of them, the protectiveness, the cheeriness that blossomed a non-too-pleasant smile on his face, all of those… were but a reflection of a shard of ice that was buried deep within himself and nothing more. But once Dudu changed his form to Dainty — finally accepting whatever he was offered — well, the sympathetic look he gave him was enough to make Geralt catch up to Jaskier when the bard offered to go to the Passiflora with the Biberveldts as their patrons.

“Come on, we’re going to have much fun, my friend.” Jaskier’s grin was huge, and his cheeks were rosy, as if he was but a teenager who just had gotten out of Oxenfurt and had never seen a prostitute before. Geralt pointed ahead with an extended hand, and he was surprised when it was taken by the bard and he was tugged along.

He looked back, stunned, and was caught off guard by the knowing gaze of Dudu, who followed along avoiding the crowds with a very particular grace that Dainty did not have. He was self-conscious, such a small action bringing out of him a barely audible gasp. The smile tugging on the lips of the Halfling was enough to tell him that he had, indeed, much to feel self-conscious about. His heart was out in the open, the feelings he didn’t even _know_ he had. The _love_ he purposefully ignored.

But then, _I read his thoughts too,_ Dudu mouthed innocently, and his smile grew even wider. He was almost laughing, and Geralt wasn’t an idiot, he knew those reactions were of a man who knew something that the other didn’t. _Don’t worry,_ after a few seconds his mouth moved again.

And he didn’t worry, then – or tried not to worry while his heart was beating as fast as a normal man’s. He turned to look at Jaskier, who continued to tug him forth. Geralt squeezed the bard’s hand — a moment of weakness, so soft it might’ve been a mistake.

And then, his friend squeezed back.

* * *

So, here they were. Around them, customers, mostly human, danced around intoxicated by both alcohol and something that smelt distinctly like cannabis. The tables were filled with red candles and flowers, and bottles of wine and ale and things that were barely consumable alcohol. Jaskier and Geralt sat on a far corner, right in front of a wall, beside a bar where at least three women with their tits out were sitting. One of them was a beautiful elf with dark skin and long curls— she was eyeing Geralt with gorgeous brown eyes, big and deep and filled with the promise of a good night, and, if it was any other day, well, he might’ve given her all she wanted from him and perhaps a bit more.

But, he was a sad man who was easily taken by the heart and, Jaskier’s presence by his side just kept him from taking the leap and simply— jumping to take off the red lingerie that was hugging her thighs and hid her striking cunt, and perhaps a thin layer of pubes. So, knowing that tonight, at least for now, was not the night he would take her to bed, he took his eyes off her wonderful figure. He felt Jaskier’s gaze on him, then, an eyebrow raised, questioning the whole exchange – perhaps he too, expected his friend to take the elf upstairs and ravish her senseless – but then, the bard simply continued the very uninteresting conversation with a patron that sat on the table in front of theirs, a man with a woman with fair, red hair, falling on cascades over her voluptuous breasts. She, too, was stunning, her lips red and— she was fuller, rounder than the elven lady, but still gorgeous nonetheless. “—If I play, will _you_ pay me, master Acker?” Geralt finally heard where this whole conversation was going. _Money,_ Geralt snorted, because Dudu and Dainty’s patronage wasn’t enough.

And while the two of them were upstairs having fun already, it didn’t mean their patronage ended, so it wasn’t like Jaskier _needed_ the money, but, well, he was ambitious. And selfish. And many other bad qualities that weren’t overshadowed by the _good_ , anyways. “I will pay if I’m impressed, Master Jaskier.”

“I’ll give you an impression, then.” And then, he took his lute with his left hand, laying his right on Geralt’s thigh, _perhaps a bit too high_ , and squeezed, sending an imperceptible shiver down Geralt’s spine. And he wouldn’t have noticed, he wouldn’t care, if it wasn’t for Tellico the Doppler, who once was a wolf, who was called Dudu by his friends — if it wasn’t for him, who decided to bring from the back of his mind those feelings he never dared to look at for long enough to consider _anything other than the yearning for truth._

And so, the bard who had attached himself to Geralt for more years than he was able to remember stood in front of the crowd of the Passiflora, like the hundreds of times he had done before, and like always, all eyes were on him. On his doublet, deep blue, like his eyes. On his lute, a gift from the Elven King who almost killed him, and who he faced _heads on_ just so that Geralt wouldn’t die, just so that Geralt wouldn’t die _alone_. And then, he opened his mouth, lips that were, perhaps, a bit too thin; but with a tenor voice so strong that it carried the melody all the way to the outside of the Passiflora, even with all the noise. When the first note hit, something high and strong and clear, there was silence, and everyone was suddenly listening to the bard, who was singing a song that maybe was out of place, and perhaps, it was not.

_A love song._

In a brothel, you came looking for a transaction. Something clean, something easy – no attachment, just a quick fuck, something fun… But _sometimes,_ some people came looking to ease something that felt hollow, that felt empty. To fill the hole deep inside that, maybe, made them feel a little bit lonelier when the night was done and when a prostitute was thru with sucking your cock. So, yeah, a love song, perhaps, wouldn’t had been Geralt’s first choice, especially considering that Jaskier had Fishmonger’s Daughter on his repertoire. And yet…

There was something terribly yearning in the way the bard’s voice danced around; a longing that was so deep, so filled with an intense sense of dread and the inevitability of an end… that it was just… maybe what the night needed.

_Under the sun, like rays_

_Her hair brightly danced across the winds_

_And up north she went, towards the ruins underneath_

_And on the graveyard of memories_

_She found herself singing_

_To the gods above ground to give her memories_

_Of a man she loved_

_On a past life_

_Of a man she loved_

_But couldn’t remember._

_Oh, on the ruins underneath_

_She sought salvation._

He moved around, like a mage, hypnotizing those who would listen. There he was, on his waters; like an incubus, leeching off their affections and attention – in his eyes there was a challenge, asking if there was anyone who would dare to doubt his talent, as his fingers danced across the strings; high notes, sweet and filled with craving and fear and _love._

_Oh, soulmates, those lost in history_

_Those who strings get entangled._

_Are you happy now?_

_As you wander, lost in the ruins_

_Pursuing redemption._

_Oh, her hair, golden under the rays_

_Cascading on her hips_

_As she prayed_

_For the man she couldn’t remember._

_Oh, are you happy now?_

_Oh, on the graveyard of memories_

_Oh, on the graveyard of memories._

_Oh the ruins underneath; the world hides above_

_Where the soulmates get lost_

_Seeking salvation._

Once he was done, there were minutes of silence. Minutes, that felt like hours. And then, _then_ , the audience _soared_. And Jaskier stood in the mists of it all; the candles around him showering with shadows, his cheeks rosy, a thin layer of sweat coming down his neck. His arms were extended, ceremoniously bowing to the people who kept on cheering until they, too, ended the night with a sore throat. And, for a moment, and if only for a single moment, Geralt allowed himself to think that Jaskier have never looked so… ethereal. It wasn’t about his _looks,_ even though he was a fairly handsome man, but about _him,_ about the way he was, how he moved, how he spoke, how he held his lute with his left hand instead of the right, how he preferred to play for the _people_ instead of playing for the schools and the easy money and the _easy fame,_ how he was brave and strong and _Gods above_ , an asshole, a womanizer, a man afraid of _settling down_ , someone just so…

_Alive, and human, and imperfect_ … and yet. Perfect, in his own, stupidly charming way.

He continued to sing, his entire cycle of the White Wolf; and the noble on the table in front of them with the ginger prostitute with long, silky hair passed Geralt a bag of coin as he sang along Toss a Coin to your Witcher. It was heavy, heavier than he expected; and Jaskier probably would be able to pay whoever he fancied, even if he wasn’t under anyone’s wing tonight.

When the bard came back, he was sweaty; and he wouldn’t let _anyone_ tell him that he had the scent of onion lingering on him, because ‘Of course I don’t Geralt, only you would let yourself smell that way’, and Geralt found that he didn’t mind – even though he wanted to tease him; he sat once again beside the Witcher, and Geralt gave him the bag of coin which was promised by the lord in front of them _if_ he was impressed.

Of course, with the petulance of a child, Jaskier asked, “Pleased, my lord?”

“I was feeling charitable.” He kissed the neck of the woman on his lap, giving one light touch to her breast before he stood. “My wedding is next week. Maybe we might need a bard.” With that, he was gone – and Jaskier didn’t seem like he wanted to go play on his wedding – perhaps offended by the prospect of being a charity. The woman with long, red hair decided that perchance, her opportunity to get a bit more coin tonight was on the bard’s lap, so without any prompting, she took a sit, giving one small kiss on Jaskier’s jaw.

Maybe, that should’ve been Geralt’s signal to just go, but, he simply stared, watching the woman, beautiful and filled with vitality and _life,_ kiss her way to Jaskier’s mouth. And what a beautiful kiss. Those lips, thin, but talented, moved along with hers with grace and passion and _want_ and, maybe, just maybe, Geralt found himself yearning to kiss those lips.

He turned to look to the front – another pretty woman looking at him with big, beautiful brown eyes and a wicked smile on her full lips; but then, when he was about to make a decision; to look for a partner himself, he felt the soft caress of the fingertips of a calloused hand, as it played with his hand that was resting on the bench right beside the bard’s thigh. Something like this, before, _before Dudu,_ he would’ve thought it was simply a mistake, something that Jaskier did because he was on the throes of passion with a beautiful woman or perhaps, a handsome man… And yet.

_And yet._

Now he can’t ignore the lingering feeling of those long, _long,_ fingers on his palm.

And it is so _strange,_ so _out of place,_ and yet he finds, that when the bard holds his hand, and he holds Jaskier’s back; and when there’s a squeeze, he squeezes back – and then, his eyes, golden, shining strangely underneath the candlelight, find themselves faced with the cornflower blue of Jaskier’s gaze; and then… He sees.

He _sees_ what he has seen a million times before. The fondness, so deep, so hypnotic, so… So much like Jaskier’s own music. His feelings are imprinted right in his eyes.

Geralt doesn’t know how it happened, really, but the woman on his lap looked at them with soft understanding on her features, and when they leaned in to kiss, a soft touch on the lips, really, she was there to cover; so that no one judged, and no one screamed. She straddled their legs with her thighs, so that their crotches laid closely to her knees; and she held the back of their necks, while her hair fell around them like a river of fire. And the kiss felt… It just felt.

Like a million words unspoken by the two of them. Like they’ve shared so many secrets and yet _not enough_ , and each time their lips meet they just can’t get enough, and it _burns,_ but it doesn’t hurt, and it _scars_ but it needs no healing; leaving marks all over Geralt’s skin – marks that he would happily wear, every day, for the rest of his long, _long_ life. And Vespula, bless her heart, who said that Jaskier has no dexterity as a lover – well, as he’s breathless with just but one kiss, he has to blame her for whatever set of skill she thinks the bard might be lacking; he _ascends_ , with every soft touch, every change of angle, every whisper and unspoken word told to him by the lingering touch of those lips – those lips that taste like ale, and wine, and _Gods knows what else_ and it’s just so… Perfect.

“Fuck, I…” Jaskier’s voice is barely a whisper, so lost and so desperate and Geralt can’t help but having his heart – the heart pierced with a shard of ice; the heart that does nothing but imitate, _the heart he feels beating as fast as a normal man’s underneath the fingertips of Jaskier’s hand just above his chest_ – having it all but stolen by the bard’s attempt of finding words, words that he lost by a kiss given to him by the Witcher. He looked at the woman above them both, and she simply smiled – her lips full, her cheeks filled with freckles.

“I think you two need some time alone, and _I_ will be taking a fee for covering up. But don’t worry. I know you’re under the Biberveldt’s.” Geralt noticed, when she grinned even more broadly, that she had one crooked teeth. He couldn’t help but think that made her even more endearing. “Shoo, both of you. Lord Acker wasn’t very entertaining, he’s really dull in bed as he is in his life – his wife will probably tire of him. But you two? You were amusing enough, seeing love in a brothel isn’t something short of a fairytale.” She whispered, and then, she kissed their cheeks, in the corner of their mouths.

And on their way out, the beautiful elven woman with dark skin and red lingerie took Jaskier by the hand, giving him one meaningful look. “Sing for us again sometime, I want to know if the girl found her lost soulmate.” She eyed Geralt meaningfully, and then, her gaze fell back on Jaskier. “She does have some beautiful golden curls, doesn’t she?”

The bard hummed, seemingly deep in thought. “The most beautiful golden curls. Don’t worry though… I want to think the Gods heard her prayers.”

She beamed, as if she was but a young woman – and Geralt suddenly hoped… For people to come looking for love at a brothel; and to treat these women, these beautiful women… With the respect and the _love_ they deserved.

* * *

It all started as most things do in Geralt’s life. A hunt. Of sorts. For a Doppler. Which, by the way, was a species that was supposed to be extinct, _but_ that’s out of topic, as you all already know. It began with Dainty Biberveldt coming to a low-life tavern to confront Dainty Biberveldt _;_ and, well… It ended, unexpectedly — _as many things in Geralt’s life often do_.

Morning came the next day, and Geralt and Jaskier were laying side by side, completely naked, with a woollen yarn's sheet covering both of them. Their legs were tangled, their hairs were messes, and they absolutely smelled like they needed a shower. But it was fine. It was perfect, in the way that it wasn’t.

“When did _you_ realize?” Suddenly, the bard asked, while he played with the stubble that was beginning to be shown on Geralt’s face. “Because… I thought you would’ve known when I said I preferred to die than to be in a world without you.”

Geralt laughed, openly and rich, the bed vibrating along with his baritone. “Dudu said he read my mind, the _only_ person I wasn’t able to hurt was you. Even if he wasn’t you, I just couldn’t bear to hurt someone who resembled you so much… It... made me think… See things I wouldn’t had noticed otherwise. He also read _your_ mind, and made it clear that you felt somehow similarly.”

“I’ll write an entire cycle to Dudu. An ode to a Doppler. You’ll see. He’ll be famous!” He leaned in and kissed Geralt again, and again, and again – and maybe, they lost track of time after the third. “And, I’ll give our golden lady a happy ending.”

Geralt hummed, seemingly deep in thought for a few moments. He looked up at Jaskier, beautiful, _beautiful_ Jaskier, with his big, cornflower blue eyes, as the bard continued to stare Geralt’s face with fond amusement, letting the Witcher think his words carefully. “Was she supposed to be you?” 

The bard chuckled, breathily — so, _so_ happy. “No, my dear. I wasn’t looking for my lost string… _you were._ ”

Before Geralt could retort, he was kissed yet again, those soft, thin lips meeting with his mouth in a dance he didn’t want to end. He drank from the fountain that was Jaskier, and kept on drinking until the sun was high in the sky. Whatever retort the Witcher had for the poet died in his tongue, and from the ashes of his riposte, a soft, barely audible moan was born.

  
And suddenly, everything was fine.   
  


After all, it was just like Jaskier to be so presumptuous that he believed himself to be Geralt’s lost string. And even if Geralt would never admit it out loud… Maybe the bard was right. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading!!  
> Toss a comment to your writer, Oh valley of plenty? 
> 
> Also, writing songs is hard and I don't recommend it. 
> 
> Also, also also also also... my native language isn’t English and I read these books in Spanish HAHA, forgive my weird wording in some places.  
> It has some corrections - because I wanted people from all the fandom to understand it. So I had to REALLY explain who Dudu and Vespula were.


End file.
